


The Crisis

by SergeantFreezerburn



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (i'm sorry), Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Brief Appearance by the Young Avengers, But How Permanent Are Those Deaths Really, But Maybe A Happy Sequel?, Character Death, Death, Gore, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Character Death, No Smut, People Die Like It's Infinity War, Possibly No Happy Ending, The Tags Are So Out Of Order And Incomplete Send Help, Violence, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-05-26 22:02:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15010373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SergeantFreezerburn/pseuds/SergeantFreezerburn
Summary: When H.Y.D.R.A. had first started testing the early versions of the so-called ‘serum’, things had looked rather promising.Eight days later, the first casualty occurred.  Twelve days later, news reporters spoke of an ‘epidemic’. Twenty days later people started leaving their homes, their families, their lives behind and fled in a headless race against the unavoidable.At this point, the survival of the human race is questionable at best.AKAThe dark Zombie AU where people die like it's Infinity War (cue: Another One Bites The Dust).





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I watched one (1) zombie movie and this happened.
> 
> This is a zombie fic first and a shipping fic second.
> 
> Updates should come regularly as the whole thing is mapped out and only has to be written down.
> 
> What, like it's hard?
> 
> Yes, very.
> 
> This is NOT the place to cure your post Infinity War depression. I cannot stress that enough. You think that was dark? Think again. I took it as a challenge to do worse.
> 
> I appreciate comments and kudos more than Thanos wants the Infinity Stones.

# Patient Zero

 

Johann Schmidt was born on October 7th in a village in Germany to his parents Hermann and Martha Schmidt.

This was how his life began, unspectacular at best, if not plain ordinary. 

How his life ended is of much more interest and what will be conserved in the history books to come.

Well. If there will be anyone left to write those books, that is.

If, by some good fortune, or miracle, or God’s will, or however you would like to call it, there will be some of us left to actually tell his, and by that, humanities story, they most likely won’t call him by his given name.

If, and that is a big if, his story will be told, you would most likely hear about him as the Red Skull.

The origin of that name is simple, and by all means self-explanatory, if you knew where this story was headed.

Another name he might go by would be Patient Zero. The first in many, many of us to fall victim to what would be the biggest - and possibly last - epidemic humankind had ever seen.

When H.Y.D.R.A. had first started testing the early versions of the so-called ‘serum’, things had looked rather promising.

Press releases had talked about ‘enhanced metabolism’, ‘strengthened immune system’, ‘heightened physical abilities’ and so on and so forth. Scientists had patted themselves on the back, authorities had spoken about ‘a health reform of unprecedented dimensions’. The military had rejoiced with the sheer possibilities the serum promised to offer.

Eight days later, the first casualty occured. Twelve days later, news reporters spoke of an ‘epidemic’. Twenty days later people started leaving their homes, their families, their lives behind and fled in a headless race against the unavoidable.

Their cars are still blocking the main roads now, packed to the brim with everything they could grab and somehow haul into or onto them, forty-five days after Patient Zero had turned. Their bodies, however, are gone.

You can hear them, sometimes. It is nothing like in the movies, no growling or other gruesome noises that would alert you to their presence. You can hear them when they eat. When they fight. They are probably best compared to feral animals on the hunt, stealthy when they have to be and ruthless when they can.

As with any virus, some low percentage of humankind presented immune against it. They didn’t get infected through the water or the food or the contact with the turned. Their saliva, however, would turn even the most robust of specimen, as we have seen in practise. Why that and no other bodily fluids carry that ability is to be explained by those more well-versed in the scientific specifics than me.

At this point, the survival of the human race is questionable at best. Those most likely to be capable of producing a cure were the first ones to go, since they were the ones closest to the source of the infection. Cluttered and isolated groups of survivors remain, but they are greatly outnumbered by the living dead. Those groups would have to successfully eliminate the infected, rebuild society and eventually, repopulate.

In theory, if those immune to the virus survive for long enough to pass that trade on to the next generation, there might just be a sliver of hope. If the world they would live in would really be worth living in at all, well, that is left to be determined.

Which brings us to a particular group of survivors, unlikely heroes if you will. While it would be preposterous to say they represent the best earth has left to offer, or even the best to fulfill the quest they are about to embark on, they do possess an utterly surprising amount of hope and belief in the survival of humanity. Armed with that, if not much else, in times like these, you might even go so far as calling them earth’s mightiest.

 

***

_“These are the times that try men's souls.  
The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.”_

_\- Thomas Paine, ‘The Crisis’ (excerpt) ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> [Find me on tumblr](https://sergeantfreezerburn.tumblr.com/)


	2. Steve Rogers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ao3 doesn't have a thing for numbering with prologue, so where it says chapter 2 it's really chapter 1 and so forth and no one cares probably but I do.
> 
> There's gonna be poems at the end of each chapter that I feel like fits the character or situation, we'll see. Cause why not.
> 
> Again, do read the tags, I'll update them as the story progresses but people WILL die and there might be gore, too, eventually, but that would show up if that's the case.
> 
> At the moment it looks like each mayor character is gonna have one chapter centered around them, chapters might get longer later on.
> 
> Right, lets get to it then, we don't want to leave everyone's favourite star spangled man waiting. Who knows if he could do that all day.
> 
> UPDATE: Edits made to Wanda's backstory.

# Steve Rogers

  


Steve Rogers was a man out of time.

As a child, he was so sickly and frail, no one believed he would live to grow old. No one, that was, apart from Sarah Rogers. The small, Irish woman would stand up to anyone, be it doctor or priest, who would tell her to ‘prepare for the worst’, that ‘his time had run out’ or that ‘soon, he would be without pain’.

Sarah Rogers didn’t have much to give by worldly standards, but she was rich beyond belief when it came to kindness and hope and love. Every night, she would pray to God not to take her son just yet, for he had so much more to give to the world and He could have her word on that. And every morning, she would thank God for believing in her the way she believed in her son.

Sometimes even Steve didn’t think he would get to see another sunrise, and he had made his peace with it - as much as someone as young as him was able to. He would pray, too, but not for himself, but for God to look after his mother once he was gone.

One particularly bad day, Steve had been convinced that he had opened his eyes for the last time that morning. He had turned to his mother, who was sitting by his bedside, and said, “I’m sorry mom, but I think I’ve run out of time.” But Sarah Rogers was nothing if not a woman of faith. She had smiled at Steve, brushed his hair out of his face and replied,”Sweetheart, if you’re out of time, we simply have to find you some more.”

Steve had cried, only a little, because he hadn’t wanted his last moments to be full of sadness.  He had watched the sunset, which was beautiful that time of year, and he had wanted to draw it. The last thing he had seen, before he’d closed his eyes for what he believed to be his final time, was his mother’s smile bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun.

When he’d woken up the next morning, his mother had introduced him to a man named Abraham Erskine, and when she’d leaned down do kiss her son’s forehead, she had said, “Stevie, I found you some more time.”

Years later, when the tables had turned and it was Steve sitting at his mother’s bedside, she reached up to wipe away his tears and told him, “It is alright darling, all those nights ago I asked God to give you more time, and I believe now it is my turn to pay Him back.”

Steve wasn’t sure he believed in God. But he believed in Sarah Rogers. She often used to say, “It’s not the great men that change the world, Steve, it is the ones that are good.” He tried to honour his mother as well as he could, he tried to be good, he tried to play his part in this world.

When he enlisted in the army, he felt he was doing just that, like he was part of something bigger than himself.

When he left the army, he had lost and lived and learned and the world seemed like a different place than what he had taken it to be.

Steve thought of all of this now, wondering if his time had finally come, as he stared into the eyes of the animal in front of him.

It was eerie, how their eyes reflected the light now. He knew what it meant. Apparently there had been cases where people cut of their infected limbs to stop the contaminated blood to reach the heart. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t. The window of opportunity slammed shut as soon as their eyes changed. That was, as far as theory goes, the point of no return.

Steve weighed his options. He had his gun, loaded and ready, but it was strapped to his leg. Their reflexes were astonishingly quick and he doubted he’d be able to shoot the animal before it got to him. Some of them had figured out that their saliva was harmful to humans - it burned almost like acid on their skin - and had taken to spit at their prey, usually incapacitating them and making hunting easy. There wasn’t much around him he could make use of, either. The small alleyway had nothing to offer apart from a trash can to his left and a few loose bricks to his right.

They all had the ability to stand incredibly still, hiding in the shadows like statues, and only when light hit their eyes did you know you were done for. Steve’s muscles began to ache from the sheer inability to move. He knew that movement of any kind would cause the animal to attack. His subconscious must have noticed a miniscule shift in the animals posture, since at no point did he actually decide a course of action but acted purely on instinct.

When the animal pounced on him, teeth bared in a horrific imitation of a smile, Steve had already grabbed the lid of the trash can with his left and shielded his body with it, cowering behind it. He pulled the gun from his halter and shot the animal, double tap to the head, while still shielding as much of himself with the lid as he could.

This wasn’t the first encounter of this kind Steve has had during the last month, and if there was one thing he’d learned, it was not to look at the animal’s face too closely. He knew the people of this neighbourhood, and there was a reason why he called what they’d turned into ‘animals’. It was one thing shooting a wild animal in self defense, a whole other to shoot Phil from 2B who frequently stopped him in the hallway to make conversation.

Steve sighed, dropped the trash can lid he realised he was still holding, and carefully stepped around the body on the ground. He didn’t look away from its face quick enough.

Wanda, Erik’s little girl from the floor below him. She and her brother used to play on the street in front of their building, Pietro playing catch with other children from the neighbourhood and Wanda drawing on the stone with chalk, scarlet red, her favourite colour. Or rather, she would drag the chalk over the stone to then gather up the dust, clapping her hands together excitedly to watch red clouds paint the air. Squealing with delight, she would blow on her hands, effectively covering herself and anyone unfortunate enough to walk by her in chalk.

One of those poor souls used to be Steve, who Wanda had taken a liking to, since she would run up to him, and leave handprints on his jeans while hugging him firmly. ‘Wanda, leave Mr. Rogers alone honey, you’re staining his clothes,’ Erik would tell her off from the table he was sitting on in the shade of the building. ‘Steve doesn’t mind, do you Steve?’ She’d reply, looking up to him with big brown eyes. ‘No, he doesn’t,’ Steve would reply, chuckling.

Wanda then tended to reach up and tug on his sleeve, until he bend down low enough for them to be face to face. ‘You know,’ she’d whisper conspiringly, ‘this isn’t actually chalk.’ Steve, too, would lower his voice like she was sharing a secret with him. ‘No?’. Wanda would shake her head, brown locks flying away from her face. ‘No. It’s magic dust.’ Steve would look down on her hands, then on his stained clothes. ‘Huh, what does that mean for me? What does it do?’ The little girl grinned at him, delighted that a grown up played along. ‘It means that you have to do what I say, or I can curse you.’ With that, she’d wave her hands through the air as if to accentuate her words. Steve would back off a little, eyes wide in feigned fear. ‘Please, don’t curse me, what do you want me to do?’ Wanda would smirk and demand, ‘I would like, mhm I would like you to give me some sweeties,’ and with a look over to her father she’d add, ‘please.’ Steve would sigh in relief, and pull out some candy he carried around with him for that purpose. ‘That I can do,’ he’d say, and Wanda would take them out of his hand.

‘Wanda, aren’t you forgetting something?’ her father would intervene, and Wanda would look up to Steve, eyes bright, and give him a quiet thank you. Then she’d run off to share the sweets with her brother, like her father would ask her to.

Steve would then usually have a brief chat with Erik, and his partner Charles, who often accompanied Erik outside and would invite Steve to a game of chess. From those interactions Steve had learned that they’d adopted the children from a war-torn country called Sokovia that had left the siblings orphaned.

They had seemed like happy children, Steve thought, as he looked back at the girl’s deformed, dead body. He hoped that someone else had taken care of her brother, the idea of that good natured little boy roaming around, hunting, was not one he liked very much.

Steve shook his head to clear it of those images, get back on track. He had a job to do.

Loading the truck with essentials had proven harder than expected, since the main entrance to many buildings had been barricaded early on, and maneuvering supplies through windows and balconies while constantly looking over your shoulder was no easy task. So now he had to enter the first floor of his apartment building through a window by climbing up the fire escape. He had made a point of putting the ladder high out of reach the last time - and every time - he’d left, as an added security measure that he wasn’t even sure would keep them away. But that also meant he had to jump up a fair height to pull the ladder down.

This whole ordeal had been about as physically strenuous as one would have thought, and Steve was glad he’d kept up his training even after leaving the army. There was only one last thing he wanted to take with him, which was why he had come back to his apartment in the first place. Mostly he’d been scouting the neighbourhood, looking for survivors and supplies he could make use of. While there had been plenty of the latter, he hadn’t been able to find one other living soul.

He passed the apartment next to his, but Kate has been long gone. One day she had left to check on her aunt, and when she hadn’t come back, Steve had made his conclusions. Kate was one of the last people he had talked to in what felt like forever. The silence was one of the worst things about all of this, being alone and left with your thoughts and fears and nightmares.

He stopped at his apartment’s door, put his ear on the wood and listened intently. It was doubtful that one of them had made it inside, and stayed there, since there was nothing in there they’d be interested in. The list of things that interested them was pretty short. Number one: Human flesh. Number two: See point one. Still, Steve took out his gun and entered what had been his home with the same caution he had entered buildings in enemy territory. After he’d cleared all rooms, he walked back into his bedroom to retrieve the family picture album from the bottom drawer of his dresser. Sentimental, yes, but in times like these if you don’t hold on to your humanity, you might as well give into insanity.

This was probably the last time he’d ever be within these walls, Steve realised. He had tried his best to make this place a home, he had filled it with pictures and art and books and surrounded himself with things he loved. He remembered spending a long time to decide on which picture to hang on the main wall opposite the living room window. It had seemed so important at the time. Now, it seemed like the least important thing in the world.

When he shut the apartment door behind him, the finality of it affected him more than he would’ve expected. But this had been his home for more than two years, here he had tried and failed and then tried again to adjust to civilian life. Here he had spent many nights of beers and movies with Sam, who was probably the closest friend he’s had since the army. Here he had searched for and found a new purpose in his life, a new direction. Here he had picked up brush and pencil once more and let himself fall in love with art all over again.

But none of that mattered now. The world had changed and his life had changed with it, and he couldn't help but mourn the loss of everything he had worked so hard on building for himself. He knew he should be thankful just for being alive, and he was, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t lost things, too.

As he made his way to his car, he thought of his mother’s words:

‘Even if you don’t know what the future brings, the chance of having one is worth fighting for alone’.

  


***

_“He labours good on good to fix, and owes  
To virtue every triumph that he knows.”_

_William Wordsworth, ‘Character of the Happy Warrior’ (excerpt)_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lets see how many MCU references I can sneak into this. I think I counted five.  
> 
> 
> [Find me on tumblr](https://sergeantfreezerburn.tumblr.com/)


	3. Natasha Romanoff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the final chapter for the initial upload.
> 
> Not much more to add for now.
> 
> I wonder if Nat's skill set always included living though the zombie apocalypse or if that's a new thing.

# Natasha Romanoff

 

Natasha Romanoff was, on every level, not one you would want to mess with.

Many had tried, but no man, no government, no war had ever been able to break her.

Not even a murderously infected specimen of the human race had been able to get the better of her.

She had been bitten, she had suffered, and she had lived, the angry red mark on her abdomen only another of many battle scars she carried.

There weren’t many people she cared for or felt deeply about, her life didn’t allow for it, and even less that she trusted. One of the few who fulfilled both criterias was the man she hoped to find untouched from the madness that had engulfed the country.

The black truck was one of the last vehicles not scattered along the main roads. Unlike those abandoned vehicles, this one wasn’t covered in blood, wasn’t torn to pieces, wasn’t left behind as the cruel evidence of a last escape, misguided.

Breaking in was easy. Waiting was, too, if more tedious. Listening to her surroundings, the never ending silence, almost hoping it would be disrupted, even if by the sound of a threat.

When she finally did hear steps, she almost sighed in relief. The things moved in a very specific way, she had learned, and if you did manage to make out their steps by ear, there was no mistaking who was taking them.

The man she had been waiting for unlocked the car, unsuspiciously, and took the front seat, dropping what looked like an old leather-bound book onto the seat next to him.

“Hi.”

The man jumped out of his seat, hitting his head almost comically on the roof of the car. He spun around, gun drawn and eyebrows furrowed.

“Jesus Christ, Nat, I could’ve shot you!”

“Yes,” she smirked at him, “but you didn’t.”

Natasha smoothly climbed out of the backseat and into the front, placing the book on the dashboard.

“Shotgun,” she said to one very confused Steve Rogers.

“What?”

“Shotgun,” Natasha repeated, “I’m calling it.” She motioned to the front seat she was currently occupying. “Also, you’re still pointing one at me.”

Steve starred first at her, than at the gun he was indeed still pointing at her. He sighed, and placed it back into its holster. Then, he looked at Natasha, really looked at her, as if scanning for any sign of injury or distress.

She understood him, wordlessly, and lifted up her shirt slightly to reveal the mark one of the things had left on her. “Immune, apparently. Apart from that, just fine.”

“Natasha,” Steve said softly, reaching out as if to touch the scar but then instead cupping the side of her face, catching a few strands of auburn hair in the process. “I’m so glad you’re alive.”

Natasha smiled, placed her hand over his and replied, just as softly, “It’s good to see you, too.”

They sat like that, for a while, silence being a choice rather than the unavoidable for the first time in forever.

Finally, Steve raised his voice again. “How did you find me?”

“I have my ways.”

“I know you do.”

“I always thought I’d see you again. After.”

After. One word that held so much meaning to both of them. They had met, before, under circumstances that at another time could most easily be described as ‘classified’. Now, nothing was classified anymore. There were no agencies, no agendas, not even borders, really, just the plain fight to stay alive.

Natasha looked out of the window again, taking in their surroundings. “Never thought it would be under these circumstances though.”

Steve huffed a humourless laugh. “Yeah, out of all the ways I could have died over the years, I never imagined this to be one of them.”

“Me neither.”

They sat in silence for another moment. It was strange, how one could crave conversation, voices, people, so much and then, when presented with it, felt overwhelmed by it.

“So,” at the sound of her voice, Steve looked up from the spot on the window he’d been staring at. “What’s the plan?”

“You saying you don’t have one?”, Steve asked her incredulously.

“No, but I’m asking for yours.”

“Right. Well. It’s not much of a plan but,” and at that, Steve glanced out of the window again, “it’s not like there is much left to do here, so I might as well take my chances on the road. Heading south. Before the communications broke down I heard something about a pack of survivors there. Maybe check on some people on the way, see if they made it. So I took a car, gathered anything useful I could find and, well, here we are.”

“I never took you as the stealing kind, Rogers.” Natasha quirked an eyebrow at him with a glint in her eyes.

Steve looked at her sideways, then gave her a lopsided grin. “It’s borrowed.”

“Right.” Natasha gave him one of her barely-there smiles. Then she turned and inspected the back of the car. “I take it you got everything we need?”

Steve didn’t have to check to know the answer. He’d been going through his mental checklist plenty of times.

“Think so.” Then he hesitated for an instant, considering Natasha and her lack of baggage. “What about you?”

“I have everything I need on me.”

“Alright.” He knew from experience that Natasha could carry an astonishing amount of concealed weapons on her small frame. It reminded him of that trick magicians do, where they keep pulling more and more out of their sleeves. “You coming with me?”

“Unless you think you’re better off without me.” That was her way of asking him if he wanted her company, he knew.

“Nat, considering everything, there’s no one I’d rather have with me.” There might be one, actually, but hope was a dangerous thing in times like these.

Another smile, a real one this time, tucked at the corner of her mouth. “Okay then. What are we waiting for?”

Steve turned the key in engine and car sprang to life. As he maneuvered the car around the small open spaces left behind on the road, Natasha took down the leather-bound book from the dash to make room for her feet.

With a look over at Steve she asked his permission to take a look inside. He nodded, wordlessly, feeling her eyes on him without taking his off the road.

For a while, the silence was only filled by the turning on old pages and the creaking of leather. It might not appear to be much, but after so long without any sound that wasn’t made by yourself or the oncoming threat of one of the things, it was oddly comforting.

Natasha was the first to speak up again.

“You said you wanted to check in on some people on the way?”

Steve gripped the steering wheel a little harder. “Only one, really. Why?”

She closed the book, a picture album as she now knew, filled with memories of a happier life. Carefully placing her hand on top of it, she nodded.

“Yeah. I might have a guy.”

***

_“Beyond this place of wrath and tears_  
_Looms but the Horror of the shade,_  
_And yet the menace of the years_  
_Finds and shall find me unafraid. ”_

_\- William Ernest Henley, ‘Invictus’ (excerpt)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who could the mysterious guy be huh what a mystery?
> 
> Initially Steve's poem was this, a different part though, but then I couldn't find anything good for Nat so I think it worked out quite nicely this way.
> 
> Next chapter should be up within a week.  
> 
> 
> [Find me on tumblr](https://sergeantfreezerburn.tumblr.com/)


	4. Clint Barton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, did I say this was gonna be up within a week of the last one? My bad.  
>    
> So here it is finally, the reveal of Natasha's guy.  
>   
> Who guessed it, huh?  
>   
> To sum this chapter up: Aw, Lucky, no.  
>   
> WARNING: Violence, gore and death. Shit's getting real in this one so please do read the notes at the end. They're spoilery but some of you might want them.  
>   
> Thank you to the always amazing [LilyInTheSnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyInTheSnow/) who's both betaing and listening to me whine about how hard writing is. Any remaining errors are my own.

# Clint Barton

 

Riding through the streets of what used to be a busy city, bursting with life, had something deeply unsettling to it.

If it hadn’t been for the midday sun high up in the sky, one could have thought it was the early hours of the day before everything - and everyone - came to life.

Now, it was a city of ghosts. Haste, fear and death was evident wherever the eye settled.

 There were thrown-over tables and chairs at the sidewalk cafe Steve used to go to after his morning runs, one window shattered, the sharp edges of glass covered in blood. The other window decorated with crimson hand prints and claw marks.

 A turned-over newspaper stand, the magazines flapping in the slight breeze, bearing headlines speaking of the success of H.Y.D.R.A., accompanied by pictures of a stocky scientist in round glasses.

The remainder of a dog, still chained to a lampost where its owner had left in on the way to an errand they’d never returned from.

Steve tried to keep his eyes on the road while Natasha scanned their surroundings, taking in the signs of despair around them.

They progressed surprisingly fast, only having to stop once or twice to move an obstacle out of the way. The further away they got from the heart of the city, less and less cars were obstructing the path. No one had made it further than a few miles. Even in the formerly most populated areas no road had denied them passage, as only a fracture of the residents had survived for long enough to attempt to flee.

The first wave of the outbreak had hit them hard, mercilessly, and fast. The hunters had been efficient, quick, and dishearteningly organized, like a pack of wolves. Confronted with the raw power of them and the disarming panic amongst the humans, it had been an unfair fight.

With the emptiness and quiet around them now, it would have been easy to believe the worst part was over. But both Steve and Natasha knew that they were hiding in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity, waiting for the cloak of night to aid them.

Steve was following Natasha’s directions, still not knowing who she hoped to find. They passed a few billboards on the way that were still miraculously operating, blinking arrows, maybe meant to guide the ones on the streets to a place of shelter. However, the last one had passed them by a couple of miles now.

A somewhat run down apartment building came into view, and Natasha’s directions stopped at that. Bringing the car to a halt, Steve leaned forward to get a better look at the construction in front of them. Doors bolted, windows barred, no signs of life. He aimed a questioning look at Natasha, but she just shrugged, unbuckled her seatbelt and got out of the car.

Steve did the same, and rounded the car to find her inspecting the bolted door. 

“Are you sure this is the right place, Nat?”, Steve asked, more as an opening than a serious inquiry. If Natasha had led them here, it was where they were supposed to be. 

“Yes, I am.” She pointed at the barricade guarding the door. “And chances are, the person who did this is still inside. Doesn’t look like one of them has made it past it.” 

Steve assessed the barrier for a moment. Nothing the tools they had in the back of the truck couldn’t handle. When he made to retrieve them, however, Natasha stopped him. 

“Wait. I’ll let him now it’s us first, and not someone he might want to shoot at. Friendly fire is not how I’m planning to go down in this.” She took a small, foldable mirror out of her pocket and took a few steps back from the building to where the sun hit the ground. 

Natasha positioned the mirror just so that the reflection must be seen from the roof and the top floor. She angled the mirror into and away from the sun a few times. Morse code, Steve recognised but didn’t catch it quick enough to understand what it meant. 

They stood and waited for a while after that. Eventually, Steve turned to Natasha, “Nat, I don’t think that-” when he was cut off by an arrow hitting the ground right in front of his left foot, “-what the _fuck_.”

=Natasha grinned and bent down to retrieve the arrow that almost pierced Steve. He stared at her questioningly. “Care to explain?” 

Natasha waved the arrow in her hand. “He’ll want this back. Kinda attached to his arrows. Once he broke his favourite one and cried a little. It was cute.” 

Natasha calling someone cute did in no way help lift Steve’s confusion. 

“Not what I meant. But. Since when are you friends with Robin Hood?” 

“Funny.” She headed to the back of the truck. “Come on, we got work to do.” 

Wordlessly, Steve shook his head and followed her. If someone never failed to surprise him, it was this woman. 

Once they managed to free the door, Steve shouldered a submachine gun from the trunk while Natasha procured a pistol out of nowhere. 

Cautiously, they entered the building. They had worked together like this, before, clearing and sweeping places. It felt familiar and in that, oddly comforting. Not many things were familiar anymore these days. 

Slowly but surely they made their way up to the top. The absence of the smell of rotting flesh told Steve that either everyone who used to live here had made it out, or that no flesh had been left on their corpses to rot. He had seen what the animals left behind, clean bones gnawed down to precision. 

When they found the door that must lead out onto the roof, he positioned himself in front of it. Motioning for Natasha to wait for his signal, he readied his gun. Then, he nodded, and she opened the door as he stepped through it, weapon aimed at what was behind it. 

Which was - nothing. Or rather, no one. Just a big, open space, empty apart from a trailer that was parked in the middle. How that had gotten up here, he had no idea. Natasha followed Steve immediately after he let her know that there was no imminent danger. 

As she laid eyes on the trailer, a smile tugged on her red lips and she secured the pistol she was holding in her back holster. Walking up to the door of what appeared to be the makeshift home of her ominous friend, she looked back over her shoulder at Steve, giving him a reassuring smile. 

She rapped her knuckles against the rusty metal of the door, in what appeared to be a distinct pattern. Which was repeated back to her only a few seconds later. Natasha backed away from the trailer, and stood beside Steve. 

Finally, the door opened and revealed who they'd been looking to find. 

Out of the shadow stepped a tall man, hair ash blonde until it was hit by the sun, giving it a golden shimmer. He was dressed almost head to toe in a black leather ensemble, purple accents highlighting his broad chest and impressive, bare arms clad in leather guards. A quiver strapped to his back and a bow in hand, he descended the few steps that led down from the above-ground trailer door. 

It was a truly impressive, cinematic entrance. Or it would have been, if it not for the ball of blonde fur that burst out from behind the man as soon as he stepped on the ground, effectively tripping him over, landing face first on the stone. 

“Aw, Lucky, no,” said the sprawled out mess on the floor. 

Steve raised an eyebrow at Natasha. “That’s your guy?” 

Natasha sighed, but smiled. “That’s my guy.” 

Said guy was currently trying to gather himself off the ground, but was hindered by the dog, Lucky, who kept licking his face as if to check he was alright. 

Finally, he managed to get up, not without entangling his legs with Lucky yet again, but this time keeping his balance. The man’s face, now covered in grit and scrapes, lit up as he saw Natasha. 

“Nat! It’s you!” 

“Of course it’s me, who did you expect?” 

“Well,” the man rubbed his neck with his left hand, “you?”. Only then did he seem to register Steve standing next to her. He stepped forward, extending his hand to Steve. 

“Hi. I’m Hawkeye.” He said as Steve shook the offered hand, and grinned from ear to ear. 

Natasha subtly rolled her eyes. “Steve, this is Clint. Clint, this is Steve.” 

“Aw, Nat, c’mon, why do you always have to be such a spoilsport?” 

“Pff,” Natasha replied and handed him the arrow she had picked up earlier, “peace offering?” 

Hawkeye - Clint? - took it and stared at her in awe. “I think I love you,” he said, and then proceeded to caress the arrow in his hand. 

Steve leaned in closer to Natasha. “Is he talking to you or the arrow?” 

Natasha just shrugged good naturedly and smiled. She smiled a lot when it came to Clint, apparently. Steve would keep that in mind. 

Lucky ran up to Natasha, wagging his tail excitedly, and she petted his head which earned her a happy bark from the labrador. Then, he walked over to Steve, sniffed his hand and, apparently deciding he was friendly, threw himself on the ground, offering his belly expectantly. 

Steve laughed and bent down to rub his soft fur, which had Lucky wriggling on the ground happily. Clint had carefully stashed the arrow in his quiver and he and Natasha were conversing quietly while Steve played with the dog. 

“Steve,” Natasha’s voice caused Steve to look up from where he was crouched down next to Lucky. “Clint says there is a pack of them that’s active around here, we should make a run for it before they find us.” 

“They usually come out in the dark, so we shouldn’t be in too much trouble as long as it’s light outside.” Clint added. 

Natasha looked up into the sky. “The sun is getting real low. I say you grab your things and we leave.” 

Clint nodded, “Alright.” He motioned toward the trailer. “Come on in, I could use a hand.” Whistling low under his breath, he stepped into his home, Lucky close behind him. 

>Steve and Natasha followed, blinking a few times to adjust their eyes to the semi darkness inside. It was messy, but Clint seemed to know where everything was. He pulled out a bag from under the mattress in the corner and started throwing stuff inside. 

“There is uh, canned dog food in the cupboard over there,” he motioned for Natasha to get a hold of it. She piled everything into another bag she found under the sink. “Steve, there is a box on the shelf next to you, we need that as well.” Steve nodded, reached up and then dropped the considerably heavy item into the bag Clint was packing. 

Clint huffed a ‘thanks’, then zipped up his bag. Looking around, he nodded to himself, seemingly considering his work here done. “Okay, that should be everything.” He shouldered the bag and headed for the door, when he suddenly stopped, turning around so fast he banged into the shelf behind him. “Aw, leg, no.” 

Rubbing his limb, he hobbled over to a cupboard in the back. “Can’t leave without this,” he said, clutching a cardboard box possessively to his chest. Apparently, Clint’s most prized possession, apart from his arrows, was a box of twinkies. He struggled to carry both both bags and the box, so after a moment of consideration he handed the box to Steve. “Protect them with your life.” 

“Sure?” When Clint kept staring at him, Steve added “Yeah, sure, I will.” He glanced over at Natasha, but she didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned about her friend’s priorities. 

When they stepped outside, the roof was basked in the orange light of a setting sun. It was silent, as it always was, but something in the air seemed to have shifted. Steve looked over to both Natasha and Clint, they had noticed it too. Even Lucky had stopped wagging his tail and stared into the shadows on the far end of the roof. 

Slowly, Steve reached for the submachine gun he had slung over his shoulder. In his peripheral vision, he could see Natasha reaching for her gun as well and Clint had dropped his bags to retrieve his bow. 

They stood like that until Steve thought they’d all just imagined it, paranoid as they had to be. 

Then, they attacked. 

It was five of them, the size of teenagers. A girl with pitch black hair, a purple hairband clinging to her skull, bare where the scalp was ripped off and skin was hanging loosely from the bone. A dark skinned boy in a yellow jacket. A boy with hair the colour of snow, tainted with specks of blood and dirt. Another girl, with curly hair and a star barely legible on her torn shirt. And a boy, taller and broader than the rest of them, blonde. 

Steve could see the recognition on Clint’s face before he even heard Natasha whisper, “Is that-” 

Clint nodded solemnly. He knew those kids, knew them well. David, Tommy, Teddy, America and, of course, Kate. The group of friends often hang around his building, while Kate was the only one who actually lived there. They had taken Lucky for walks, sometimes, and they had watched movies together while indulging in unholy amounts of pizza. Clint had even taught Kate archery, up on the roof, and she had been good. Great, even. There had been more of them, originally, and it didn’t take much imagination to know what had happened to the others. 

Time seemed to slow down as Clint saw the so familiar, yet strange, figures head toward them. Tommy, the boy with the white hair, was the closest to them, moving in a way and with a speed no human being should be able to. But then, they weren’t really human anymore, were they? 

Steve aimed, and fired two bullets straight at Tommy’s head. For a horrible, horrible moment his corpse kept running, brain matter dripping out of his blown apart skull. Blood, so dark it was almost black, ran down his front. Finally, the body tripped over, fell on his knees and hit the ground with a sickening, wet sound. 

The next three reached them at the exact same time. They had used Tommy as a cover and a distraction, dismissing his mangled corpse on the ground without so much as a glance. David, the one in the yellow jacket, charged for Natasha and jumped on top of her before she could shoot at him. Teddy, the blonde, went for Clint, barrelling into him with such force it knocked him off his feet. One of the girls, America, attacked Steve, while the other one, Kate, stayed behind, watching, waiting. 

Steve had seen Natasha fight plenty of times, and so had Clint. And yet, had they not been so preoccupied themselves, the sight before them would have stunned them. David seemed to absorb her fighting style, her tactics, and mimic them in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. Every punch, ever kick, was anticipated, dodged. Natasha had to change her tactic if she wanted to have a fighting chance. 

 Instead of considering the other as an opponent, she put herself in his place. How would she react to her attacks? With this in mind, she offered David an opening which she herself would have used to - yes, to aim a punch to her exposed abdomen. But as he brought down his fist with a raw force that would probably have cost her some cracked ribs, she moved within the blink of an eye and caught his right with her left. With a sharp, sudden twist of her wrist she could feel the bones in his arm cracking. 

Using the gained moment of surprise, Natasha pushed herself off the ground, swinging her right leg into the air and around Davids neck, hauling herself on his shoulders. She stayed there for no longer than a second, bringing her hands around his head and into a motion that broke his neck. Or should break his neck. Instead, the sound of bones grinding and cracking was followed by an animalistic screech of the boy, and as Natasha launched herself off of him, landing behind his back, the creature’s eyes were still fixed on her. 

Its head had taken a half turn and was now sitting on his shoulders as if it belonged that way. It did, however, affect its coordination. Enough so for Natasha to be able to pull out the dagger stashed in her boot and bring it down on its neck, slashing through the rough skin like butter. Thick, dark blood trickled out of the wound, much less than to be expected of a living human being, but suitable for a walking corpse. 

The creature bared its teeth and snarled at Natasha, blood dripping out its mouth. It walked backwards, but towards her, with a grace and precision that was startling. It hauled itself at the redhead, and extended its left arm behind its back to wrap it around her throat. Both hit the ground, hard, Natasha taking most of the blow as the creature was hovering on top of her. The fingers burned hot on her throat and pressed down firmly, allowing no oxygen to flow into her lungs. Gasping for air, Natasha struggled to free herself from its grip, but the supernatural strength was no match for her own. 

Instead, she used her feet to push herself along the rough surface, feeling small rocks cutting open her jacket and, where it had ridden up her back, slicing into her skin. With the creature over her, its knees pointing outward and giving the impression of a person crouching down, leaning back and extending a hand to support themself on the ground behind them, it was an eerie sight. Its position gave her enough leeway to slide along the floor until she wasn’t directly under its belly anymore, and had enough room to wrap her thighs around the creature’s neck. 

>She could feel the blood from its neck wound soak through her trousers, locking her legs together in such a way that cut off the creatures air pipe. Not knowing how long these non-humans could go without air, and beginning to feel light-headed from a lack of oxygen herself, she bent her arms, bringing her palms flat to the ground on each side of her head, and pushed herself up with enough force to have both of them topple over. 

The creature, who’s balance had already been affected by the strange position it had to assume due to its head, fell backwards - or forward, really, - and hit the ground with its knees, Natasha still wrapped around its neck. She clasped a hand over the one still holding her throat in a murderous embrace, but prying it off was a sheer impossibility. With the newly gained freedom of movement from not being pinned to the floor anymore, Natasha reached for the gun strapped to her back with the other hand, brought the barrel down on the head between her thighs and fired. Once. Twice. She could feel the force of the bullets in her legs, could feel the creatures last growl, muffled into the fabric of her clothes. 

The lifeless body crumpled to the ground, and Natasha with it. The grasp around her throat had loosened and she pried of the dead fingers still clasped to it. Brain matter, pieces of skin and bone dripped off her as she stood, eagerly sucking oxygen into her lungs. The air was filled with a foul stink, emanating from the body. But in this moment, to her, it felt like a blessing. 

Natasha looked up just in time to see the one that had been America deliver an earth-shattering kick to Steve’s stomach, propelling him backwards until he hit the trailer with such might that it shook were it stood and the door - where he’d landed - came off its hinges. Steve dropped to the ground like dead weight. The impact had knocked all the air out of his lungs and he was visibly struggling to get his breath back, clutching his chest and writhing on his back. 

Meanwhile, America was marching towards him, eyes fixed on the incapacitated target on the ground. Steve’s gun had escaped his grip and slid halfway under the trailer, but even if he had it by his side Natasha doubted he’d be in the condition to use it. From the position she was standing in, Natasha didn’t have a clean shot yet, as Clint kept moving into her line of fire. She doubted that she would get more than once chance, the element of surprise being essential. Aiming her gun, keeping her eyes glued to the girl’s back, she watched tensely as she came closer and closer to Steve. If Natasha waited too long, Steve might have to pay the price. Then, Clint made an offensive attack that removed him from her line of fire, and she took the shot. 

The bullet hit the target just between the shoulderblades and exited through the chest, right in the middle of the formerly white star printed on the shirt. America was bleeding, and the dark red of the blood joined the white and the blue of her clothes. This brought her movement to a halt, as she considered the newly inflicted wound. She turned her head towards Natasha, who looked on in horror as the girls devilish smirk dissolved into a mist of red. As the headless body fell to the floor, it revealed Steve behind it, leaning heavily against the trailer, holding his gun. His breathing was going ragged and he grimaced in pain, but when he caught Natasha’s eye, he gave her a mock salute. Then his gaze drifted from her to a point behind her right shoulder, and his face dropped. 

Natasha turned, to see Clint on the ground, with the one who used to go by Teddy looming over him. He raised his fist high into the air, and brought it down with an impossible amount of force, missing Clint, who managed to roll around and out of focus, just so, and cracking open the ground beneath him, leaving a considerable dent. Teddy unlodged his fist from the ground, shook off pieces of stone, and reached for Clint, who was still between his legs and trying to crawl away on his arms. Teddy grabbed him by his quiver, yanking him up with a strength that caused the belt the quiver was strapped to Clint’s chest with to tear and break halfway through the air, effectively dropping the archer on his face. 

Dismissively throwing the quiver behind him, Teddy aimed another punch at Clint’s head, but before he could connect and crack his skull, the other man spun around and swung his bow at Teddy. Who seemed to be only mildly inconvenienced by that, if at all, grabbing the offensive item and chucking it where the quiver and arrows went before it. Clint reached for the gun he kept in a leg holster, but found it empty. Somewhere in between being manhandled and flung through the air it must have have gotten lost. 

Both Natasha and Steve started shooting at Teddy, but to no avail. The bullets flew through the air and dropped off of the target without leaving so much as a scratch. He had at least, for the time being, stopped attacking Clint and was instead looking at the two shooters with what one might almost call amusement. A high pitched and highly unpleasant sound escaped his throat, in a morbid imitation of laughter. 

Using the distraction to his advantage, Clint manage to locate a stray arrow just a bit to his right, grab hold of it and in one fluid motion, jam it right into the target’s left eye. Teddy blinked, perplexed, or would have if not for the arrow sticking out of his eye. Slowly, he reached up to his face, closed his fist around the shaft, then yanked it out - and the eye with it. Yellow puss dripped out of the now hollow eye socket, and Teddy dropped the arrow on the ground, snapping it in half and squashing his eye with his foot as he stepped to stand over Clint once again. 

With an animalistic growl, Teddy bent down, pulled back his arm to gain momentum, and slammed down his fist. The sound of crushing bone filled the air, pieces of skull and brain splattered on the stone. Blonde hair mangled with dark blood as the body dropped to the ground. 

Natasha was the first to rush over and fall on her knees next to Clint. Steve followed closely behind her, and together they moved the lifeless body of who used to be Teddy Altman off of Clint. The archer gasped for air once the weight was removed from his chest. He brushed his hair out of his face, grimacing when his fingers felt the wetness clinging to it. 

“That was-,” Clint puffed out between two rattling breaths, “-close.” 

Taking the offered hand, he stood, and holstered the gun Natasha had slid over to him as his saving grace. Whatever had made Teddy’s skin impenetrable to their bullets didn’t save him when Clint had placed the barrel of Natasha’s gun right into his eye socket and effectively blown his brain out. 

The three survivors stood, breathless, exhausted, and covered in various bodily fluids neither one of them wanted to think about, among the bodies of the kids Clint had considered his friends. Tommy, David, America and Teddy. Clint looked over the corpses around them, trying to see beyond the inhuman creatures they had become and find traits of who they used to be in their features. 

He failed. 

Lucky emerged from the spot under the trailer he had been hiding in, running over to Clint and sniffing him up and down, as if checking that he was okay. Clint bent down and spoke to him reassuringly while stroking his fur. Meanwhile, Natasha was patting down Steve for injuries, checking if the impact from earlier had damaged his ribs. The man winced under her fingers, but no bones seemed to be broken. Surprisingly, they had all made it through without too much damage. 

Clint had left Lucky to get examined as well, when the dog stopped wagging his tail and stilled, staring into the far off corner of the roof that was partly hidden in shadows. He started growling and baring his teeth, the fur on his neck standing up. It dawned on them all in the same instant. Their eyes met, and just as Clint whispered, “Kate,” Lucky lurched forward. 

And indeed, out of the shadow stepped Kate, bearing Clint’s bow and arrows. She stood, drew an arrow, placed it on the bow, aimed, pulled back the string, and let go. She’d aimed dead center for Clint’s chest. And she would have hit him, too, if Lucky hadn’t jumped into the line of fire. The labrador yelped and hit the ground unsteadily, but running, after the arrow hit him in the right shoulder. He reached Kate before she could fire another arrow, and, albeit limping, gathered up enough speed that it sent them both flying to the ground when their bodies connected. 

Kate lost hold of the bow as they rolled over the ground. The arrow stuck in Lucky’s shoulder got jostled around in the process, and while the dog yelped in pain Kate grabbed the shaft of it, twisting it crudely before tearing it out. 

As they fought, their matching growls carried over to the figures on the other side of the roof, and it was impossible to say which were animal and which were human in nature. But where Lucky went, Clint wasn’t far behind, and neither were his companions. Though it wasn’t him who reached them first, but Natasha, who launched herself at Kate, knocking her off of the wounded dog. The two of them wrestled on the ground, Natasha drawing a gun on the other, but when she pulled the trigger, no shots followed. With a quick glance at Steve and Clint, she realised that they, too, were out of ammunition, dismissing their guns in favour of knifes (Steve) and the retrieved bow and arrows (Clint). 

Natasha threw her leg around Kate’s waist while twisting to avoid the other’s bared teeth, rolling them over so that she was no longer shielding Kate with her body and instead offering Clint an opening. The arrow pierced through Kate’s throat and came to a halt just inches away from Natasha’s face. Kate struggled for air, coughing and spitting blood over the other woman. Her hold of Natasha weakened, before letting go completely and rolling off of the read head, gasping. Natasha straightened up, wiping blood out of her eyes and watched as the life drained out of the girl beneath her. With one quick motion, she bent down, sliced her knife through the other’s throat and ended her struggle. 

Natasha wiped her knife clean on her jeans, turning to see Clint, still holding his bow, looking over but past her and to the body on the ground. She searched for his eyes, but the man avoided her gaze, holstered his bow and, finally, turned away from the scene in front of him. 

Steve was hunched over Lucky, who’s laboured breath came in short rasps. Clint and Natasha joined him, with the man crouching down next to the dog’s head, petting it reassuringly, while Natasha aided Steve in examining the wounds. Lucky’s shoulder had taken considerable damage and was bleeding profusely. Steve looked at Natasha, who herself was considering Clint, worry clear on her face. Steve was about to retrieve the first aid kit they’d packed into one of the bags in the trailer earlier, when Natasha stopped him. She waved for Steve to move over to her side, and there it was, clear as day: bite marks. 

They both looked over to Clint, who was still stroking his dog’s head and speaking quietly to him. 

“-be okay buddy, we’re gonna find a nice place to stay and you’re gonna run around all you want, we’re gonna have pizza every day, okay, just stay with me pal, alright, we’ll patch you up and it’s gonna be fine yeah, it’s gonna be fine-” 

Natasha and Steve shared a look, and they knew what they had to do. The dog was obviously in pain, whining and breathing hard. Natasha was the one to raise her voice. “Clint.” It sounded soft, but determined. The man shook his head ever so slightly, and continued whispering to Lucky. Natasha repeated herself, more assertive this time. Finally, Clint looked up. “Don’t say it.” 

“I think I have to.” 

“No.” Clint shook his head again, more vehemently this time. “Don’t.” 

“Steve. Take him away.” The blonde nodded, and walked over to the smaller man, placing a hand on his shoulder. At first it looked like Clint was going to refuse, but instead he leaned over to whisper straight into the dog’s ear. Clint closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, then let himself be pulled up and away by Steve. 

How does one console a virtual stranger about losing his best friend to a twisted perversion of a human being, Steve wondered. He handed Clint a Twinkie from the abandoned bags by the trailer. It had been a long day. His social skills were not at their best. So the men stood, unwrapping the snack while they heard Natasha reload her gun behind them. 

The shot rang out loud, amplified by the silence that followed it. Natasha came up beside them. Silently, Steve handed her a twinkie too. And there they stood, side by side, surrounded by the bodies of former friends and companions. Clint hunched over and emptied the contents of his stomach on Steve’s shoes.

He never liked them anyway.

***

The orange light of the setting sun mixed with the shine of the flames, illuminating the three figures on the roof. Dark smoke curled up into the fiery sky, the smell of burning flesh filling the air. The trio, having shed their clothes and thrown them in the fire, stood clad in nothing but their underwear. The bizarre scene lacked any of the hilarity it could have entailed, on another day, under different circumstances. When they finally turned to leave, they left behind more than any of them had bargained for. And with them, the small object hovering in the sky retreated, too. Miles away, a man turned away from a monitor and wished, not for the first time, that he could have done more than watch.

***

_“Ashes denote that fire was;_  
_Respect the grayest pile_  
_For the departed creature’s sake_  
_That hovered there awhile.”_  
  
_\- Emily Dickinson, ‘Ashes denote that fire was’ (excerpt)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've decided to list the characters that leave us every chapter in the end notes. Let's pay our respects to the ones that have fallen due to the author's lack of humanity:
> 
> Tommy Sheperd  
> Teddy Altman  
> America Chavez  
> Kate Bishop  
> and  
> Lucky the Pizza Dog (I'm sorry)  
> 
> 
> [Find me on tumblr](https://sergeantfreezerburn.tumblr.com/)


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